CSi: Across Hell's Half Acre
by A Rhea King
Summary: Nick cons Greg into switching for an 'easy' case at the Bellagio, and is now rushed to solve it. Morgan has to find a body to match the head she's recovered. A shootout leaves Greg stranded at a crime scene in the desert.
1. Chapter 1

**CSI: Crime Scene Investigators**  
><strong>"Across Hell's Half Acre"<br>**

**By A. Rhea King**

**Chapter 1**

In hindsight, Greg realized things could have been worse, although he wasn't sure how. The rhythmic clip-clop made his mind wander. Each time he caught it wandering, it surprised him how quickly it kept happening.

But the turn of events all started with a coin-toss – that part he'd never forget and he was never going to let Nick forget, either…

#

Nick and Greg ate their lunches in silence, each engrossed in results and writing reports a pipe. The slow night (something no one would call it out loud for fear of jinxing it) had been a relief after months of non-stop exposure to humanities stupidity and brutality. The simple pleasure of sitting quietly and eating his lunch in peace was something Greg had looked forward to since the shift started. Neither noticed Russell come to the door with two call sheets swaying in hand. He walked up to the table and sat down. His smile grew the longer neither of them acknowledged him.

"Either you two have some really good reading or I'm getting the silent treatment."

Nick smiled, but he didn't look up. "Silent treatment for some future indiscretion."

"Ah. Well, here's the future indiscretion. I have two calls and two CSI with free time." He handed them each a sheet. Russell got up and left, adding, "Let's hope this streak we've got lasts!"

"D.O.B. at the Bellagio," Greg read from his call sheet. "Called in by housekeeping. This should be straight forward."

"DOB at 14643 County Road 121. Anonymous caller. The two units on the scene reported remains." Nick grinned. "Wanna flip for the call?"

"No."

"Come on."

"No."

"I'm your supe."

"You can't make me flip."

"I could arm wrestle it away. I'm bigger than you."

"I have things to do. I need an easy call."

"And I don't?"

"No."

Nick laughed. "For that, you are flipping."

"No!"

"You seriously don't want to flip?"

"I seriously don't want to flip."

Sara and Morgan walked in.

"Who wants to go find body parts scattered across the desert in the dark?" Morgan waived her call sheet.

"I have possible human remains at the city dump. Again," Sara said

Nick told them, "Greg is refusing to flip."

She sat down with a grin. "Greg won't flip?"

"We should flip, Greg. You could get my call," Morgan encouraged him.

"I don't wanna flip!"

The three taunted and prodded until he finally bellowed, "FINE!"

The calls were tossed print side down on the table. Nick produced a quarter.

"Alright," Nick said. "Greg calls it first. If you win, you get to draw first. If you lose, you wait."

With great dismay Greg watched then coin fly up in the air.

#

Greg stormed across the parking garage to his Denali, jamming his finger against the unlock button on his key remote. The vehicle, parked among the fleet of CSI vehicles, chirped and flicked its lights to greet him. He threw open the back door behind the driver's side and it smacked the side of Nick's Denali. Nick appeared at the back, surprising Greg, but not enough to smooth his temper.

"Easy there, Greg."

"Go to hell," Greg snapped and got in.

"What the…"

Greg turned the engine on, threw it into reverse and backed up. The bumper barely cleared Sara's Explorer.

He threw it in drive, hearing Nick call, "GREG!"

Greg drove away, careful not to let his anger get any further into his driving. He glanced back, seeing Sara join Nick, both staring at his tail lights. Greg looked away. Right now all he wished was it would all go to hell!

#

"What happened? I heard you say his name," Sara asked.

Nick pulled his cell phone from the holster on his belt. "He hit my truck with his door, and then told me to go to hell when I said something about it."

Sara stopped Nick from calling. "He's pissed that moved when the unknowns behind home he got stuck with that call in the middle of nowhere. Just let him cool off, Nick."

Nick holstered his phone. "He didn't have to cuss at me."

"Aww. Did our poor supervisor's feelings get hurt?"

"Am I supposed to like you?"

She flashed him a smile before she walked away.

#

Walking through the quiet hotel halls of the Bellagio it was always hard for Nick to imagine that twelve floors down was a noisy casino, and at varying feet he passed windows that looked out on a dry, hot night in Las Vegas. His kit bounced in his hand, as if it were laughing about how the crime scene toss came out – and without anyone around to see it, he could smile and gloat. He'd lost that toss enough times that he didn't feel the least bit sorry when someone else was stuck with a horrible call.

Nick finally reached the room with the policeman standing outside. The man was watching his cell phone. He looked up to watch Nick walk by, but looked utterly bored.

"Don't fall asleep," Nick joked.

He wasn't amused. Nick walked in to find David crouched over a body. The man was young, maybe his late teens to early twenties, with severe acne. Foam had dried around his nose and mouth. The armpits and chest of his shirt where moist, most likely from sweat.

Brass stood nearby, scribbling in his notebook. Nick stopped behind Brass.

"Hey Greg," Brass said.

"I'm not Greg. And hey back."

Brass glanced at him. "I was told Greg was taking this."

"He lost the coin toss."

Brass just smiled, looking away. He knew what that meant.

"Who's this?" Nick motioned at the dead man.

"We don't know yet. The room is registered to a woman, a Stephanie Foster. Front desk said there were supposed to be three people in this room and from the looks of things, there are at least three."

Nick looked around the room. It was an economy room with two double beds that had been used recently. Between them were a pillow and a couple of blankets where someone had slept on the floor. There were two suitcases and a girl's duffel bag – Nick deduced it was probably a pre-teen because it was pink with the various Disney princesses printed on it.

"Huh. His pupils are blown out," David told him.

Nick leaned over the body. The color was almost lost to the enlarged pupils.

"Drugs probably."

"I'd guess that too from the foam around his nose and mouth."

David and his assistant moved the body onto the gurney and headed for the door.

"Who are— What— Why are there people in my room? What's going on here?"

Nick and Brass turned. A woman and a twelve year old stood in the hall, confronting the officer blocking them from entering. The woman looked at the gurney going out.

"Is that… Who is that?"

"Ma'am calm down. We—"

"My son was supposed to be here! Where the hell is my son!"

"Uh-oh," Brass said under his breath.

Nick nodded. David most likely just wheeled the son out. Nick's phone started ringing but he ignored it. Brass walked up to the woman and Nick trailed behind.

"Ma'am, the maid came in to clean your room not long ago and she found something," Brass said.

Nick's phone started ringing again. He quickly silenced it.

"Something? That person they just took out? I don't… Where is my boy?"

"Can you describe him, ma'am?" Nick asked. "Or do you have a photograph?"

She dug her wallet out of her purse and presented a family photograph that included the man David had just wheeled away.

"Ma'am, let's go down the hall here and talk for a moment."

Nick decided to let Brass handle this. He went back to where the body had been and crouched down. Nick pulled out a UV light and shined it around the area. The area laminated in a blue tinted white.

"NO!" he heard the woman scream and looked back.

She ran through the door before the officer could grab her. Nick dropped his light and leapt up, grabbing her arms. She struggled with him, trying to get into the room. The officer came up behind her, trying to pull her away. For as small as she was, she was surprisingly strong and was determined to get what she'd come in after.

To add to the confusion, Nick's phone started ringing again.

"Cuffs! Get your damned cuffs!" Nick snapped at the officer.

The two wrestled her to the floor and several minutes and four ignored calls on Nick's cell phone, they had her in cuffs. Nick sat back, looking up at Brass. He and the daughter stood in the door, watching the scene. The girl looked up at Brass.

Quietly she asked, "I'm going to have to live with my dad for a while, aren't I?"

Brass nodded. "I think you will, kiddo."

She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest angrily. "Stupid stickers."

Brass, the officer, and Nick looked at the little girl.

The woman snarled at the child, "You keep your God damned mouth shut or you will regret it, Tamara!"

Nick got to his feet. His phone ringing again almost made him rip it out of the holster and throw it through the window. Instead he silenced it again.

"Tell who what, Mom? You didn't even tell me why you drug me out of bed to come to Las Vegas. All I know is I hate Las Vegas even more every time you drag me here."

"Tamara, do not—"

"Get her out of here," Brass ordered.

The woman continued telling Tamara to keep her mouth shut and threaten her. Tamara mouthed the threats back with a dozen eye rolls. Finally Brass and Nick were alone with the girl. Nick crouched down on one knee in front of her.

"Hi. My name is Nick Stokes." He held out his hand. "What's your name?"

She gave his hand one, limp pump. "Tamara."

"It's nice to meet you. I'm sorry to hear you have to live with your dad."

"He's really boring. We don't do just pack up and go on random trips like mom does. Except Vegas and Phoenix. They suck. They're always hot."

"They can be. You said something about stickers. What was that about?"

"They're my mom and Derek's."

"What kind of stickers are they?"

She shrugged.

"Did you like the stickers?"

"I don't like any stickers."

"Oh. Sorry. Did anyone ever give your mom or brother money for the stickers?"

"Yeah. All the time."

"Like, a couple bucks or more?"

"More. I don't know why. They're just stupid stickers."

"So you never touched them?"

She shook her head. "That gets me grounded."

"Well, probably—" Nick hesitated when his phone started ringing again. He pulled it out and turned it off. "It's probably good you don't touch them then. Do you know if they brought stickers on this trip to Las Vegas?"

"Yeah. A couple."

"Just a couple stickers?"

"A couple sheets."

"Where are they now? Do you know?"

"Mom sold most of them a little bit ago. They always put them in bag in my suitcase, but I still get in trouble if I touch them."

Nick nodded. "Do you know when you guys got here?"

"Five hours ago."

"Did you come straight here from the airport?"

She nodded.

"You didn't stop anywhere?"

She shook her head.

"Okay. Do you know if your brother, Derek, was in the room when you left?"

"Yeah."

"Do you think he stayed here when you two were gone?"

"No. He promised to go check out the pool for me. He sent me a text message and said it was nice, but we'd have to go in the morning before mom and me left. He said it was really hot out there this afternoon. I told him to stop flirting – he likes to flirt but girls get really mean when he does."

Nick smiled. "Girls can be like that sometimes. Tamara, thank you for helping out. Jim will stay with you until your dad gets here," Nick pointed at him.

"When can I go to my dad's? I'm really hungry."

"Does your dad live here?"

"No. He lives in Reno."

Brass told her, "Well, let's you and me get something to eat, and then we'll call your dad. I bet he'll be surprised to find out you're going to be visiting."

She looked at Brass with a 'no shit' glare. Brass just smiled and guided her away. Nick stood and walked over to Tamara's suitcase. He dug through it until he found the bag of stickers. He held them up and smiled, shaking his head.

He bagged the stickers. Nick grabbed a marker from his kit and began marking the outline of the blue tinted white.

#

Catherine slowed to turn off the highway onto a small asphalt road. She glanced at Morgan.

"I thought our call was human remains spotted in the desert."

"No."

"I could have sworn it was."

"No."

Catherine frowned. She knew it was. "So who took that call?"

"Sara."

"Sara switched your call? Willingly?"

"Yes."

Catherine drove through gates and into a wide dirt parking lot of the landfill. An officer was standing with two men in overalls. Catherine decided she'd ask more questions about the switch later.

The stopped in front of them and the women got out, joining the men.

"Catherine Willows, Crime lab. Where are the body parts?"

"Part," one of the men said.

"A body part?" Morgan asked.

"Yeah. The head. It's outside the fence on the back of the fill." He pointed in the general direction. "There's an access road back there."

"Could you show us?" Catherine asked.

Both men shook their head, and then one stopped shaking his head and vomited.

Catherine and Morgan looked at each other. They got back in the vehicle and drove around to the access road. Morgan rolled the window down and pulled her flashlight from her vest, switching it on. She got on her knees in the seat and shined it into the weeds along the road. Catherine slowed to a crawl.

"I see it," Morgan said.

She grabbed for the door handle when she felt Catherine grab the back of her vest and give it a tug.

"You can wait until I stop, Morgan."

Morgan smiled over her shoulder and it was returned. Catherine pulled off the road and stopped. Morgan hopped out and trotted back to the head. It was next to the fence, facing the landfill as if the deceased had planned on resting here to watch trash be spread into the land.

Morgan crouched down, looking at it. "I can't see the bottom of the neck. I don't know if the cut is clean or jagged."

Catherine stopped next to her. She turned and then turned again.

"Huh," she said.

Morgan looked up at her, and then in the direction she was staring. Directly above them, up a steep incline, was a road with cars driving by. Morgan stood up.

"Do you think someone threw it out up there?"

"I do think," Catherine answered.

"We may never find the body."

"Let's make sure the evidence tells us that before we lose all hope."

Morgan smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Greg slowed as he came in sight of the road sign for Road 211 and turned onto the dirt road. He slowed at the first three mailboxes to make sure he'd turned the right direction, and then sped up. He rolled the windows down, letting in tepid, fragrant air. Greg slowed at each mailbox until his headlights showed him 14643.

He turned onto the road next to it and was forced to slow down as he drove across the ruts. The road crossed a cattle crossing and the ruts smoothed out. Greg almost picked up the speed until a black cow appeared out of the dark, forcing him to swerve off the road to avoid it. He slowed enough so he could dodge the occasional bovine obstacle. The road dove into a valley and made a sudden left hand turn. He slid a little on the turn, but it made him smile.

According to his tripometer, the road led him fifteen miles before his headlights flashed on signs of civilization.

Greg slowed as he crossed a cattle guard and he stopped in the open yard. Right away he sensed something was wrong. There were no police cars, no lights on anywhere except for the two yard lights. The horses in the corral took an interest in him. He took his foot off the brake, letting the Denali roll slowly forward until the house came into sight. His headlights swung across the front, stopping on the front door. Greg put it in park and stepped out. He heard something solid clanking against metal. Animals moved in the corrals behind him. Somewhere to his left he heard grunts that he hoped were pigs.

"Hello?" Greg called.

No one answered him.

He pulled his cell phone out of his jeans and tapped it. The screen lit up and he pushed the quick dial for Russell. He held it to his ear for a few moments before he realized it wasn't dialing. He looked at the face and sighed. The circle slash over the bars told him he had no signal. Frustrated he tossed it on the driver's seat and grabbed his radio.

Just as he keyed it he heard the click of a gun hammer, and a low, gravelly voice ordered, "Put that on the seat, boy."

Greg slowly put his radio on the seat.

"Gun too."

Greg obeyed.

"Back up and shut the door."

Greg slowly obeyed.

"I'm with the crime lab," Greg told the disembodied voice. "I was called to this address about human remains. People know where I am."

"Just a scared punk, aren't you?"

"No. I'm a CSI. If you'll let me reach in my truck, I can show you identification. And my vest is—"

"Walk to the house."

Greg didn't move. He closed his eyes instead. "Sir, I am with the Las Vegas police—"

"Move it, boy!"

Greg opened his eyes and started for the front door. The porch light came on. A woman stepped out onto the porch, followed by three large dogs: two German Sheppard and something that resembled a Great Dane. She was wearing a night coat over a full length floral nightgown. She crossed her arms over her ample breasts, glaring at Greg.

"Where is she?" the woman demanded.

"What?" Greg asked, stopping.

"Up on the porch, boy," the man ordered, pushing with his gun.

"You tell me where Theresa is. Tell me now," she commanded.

Greg climbed the steps and was confronted by the woman.

"I know she snuck out with you earlier tonight. You tell me now where my daughter is."

"Ma'am, I'm with the Las Vegas—"

"Tell us where Theresa is. Where'd she have you drop her off? You'll tell me where the party is, boy."

Greg realized he'd just stumbled into a big confusion.

"Look, folks, I don't know where Theresa, or your daughter, is. I'm not the fella she was with. I am from the Las Vegas police and I was told there was someone dead out here."

"Dead?" The woman's composure melted. "You killed her?"

"No. I—"

"He had a gun, Mary."

"Did you kill her?"

"No! I didn't kill anyone. If you would just let me get my identification or make a phone call, we could clear this whole thing up."

"You teenagers think you can just come here and run the place," the man began. "You think you know everything and can do anything you want. Uh-uh. This is my place, boy. You're gang doesn't mean shit our here, boy. You tell me where my daughter is right now!"

Greg took a long deep sigh and risked turning around to face him. The man he faced had just begun to turn grey. He was pale where his hat and glasses normally sat, but a dark brown tan everywhere else. His hands steadily held the double barrel shotgun aimed at Greg.

"Sir, I am not a teenager and haven't been for about seven years. I work with the crime lab in Las—"

The man thrust the barrel into Greg's face. "Where is my daughter?"

The three looked up when a car came around the barn and stopped next to Greg's Denali. There wasn't movement for several minutes and then the passenger door opened.

"Daddy! What the hell are you doing!" a young woman said as she came storming around the car.

"Theresa?"

"What are you doing?"

"He took you to that party after we told you that you couldn't go to."

She stopped, thrusting her hand back toward the car. "Justin, dad. My boyfriend Justin took me. Who the hell is this?"

The man looked at Greg, then his daughter. "This is Justin."

"Really? You think Justin would have come home without me? Just admit it! You hate him don't you?"

For a moment Greg thought the whole matter was settled, and then the father took a shot at the car and all hell broke loose.

Justin and six of his gang came out of the car shooting back. The woman disappeared inside and returned with pistols. Theresa fell to the ground. Greg hit the floor of the porch and rolled off into a cactus garden. With much pain, he crawled toward the end of the porch.

"Oh the hell you don't!" he heard and looked back, finding the man charging in his direction.

Greg took off running. The sound of the shootout faded as he ran through the dark into the scrub land around the farm.

He was still at a full tilt run when he found himself running on air, and then falling. He hit the ground so hard it sent his diaphragm into a spasm, knocking the wind out of him. Then his head hit and white sparks erupted behind his eyes. He felt immediately dizzy, but couldn't tell if it was from the hit on the head or because he was unable to grab for a breath of air.

The breath came in a sudden burst and he inhaled a deep, lung full of air. He started to sit up but only made it up on one elbow before the dizziness drove forward nausea and the sparks behind his eyes became a near blinding light. Somewhere in the swirl of light and unnatural feeling, he heard the shootout in the distance.

But then his consciousness slipped away, numbing all injuries out of existence.

#

Nick had never had such a hard time getting a carpet to cut. It was as if this one was trying to help conceal evidence. Nick leaned that were short break and then leaned in, making jabbing cuts along the outline.

"Nick."

Nick paused to look up. Another officer had been sent to stand guard outside the room while Nick worked. He was holding his radio speaker/mic to his ear, likely listening to dispatch.

He let the mic go. "Your supervisor is trying to reach you but your phone is off."

"Oh!" Nick had forgotten he'd turned off his phone. He stood and turned it on. When the phone finished booting, the icon at the top indicated he had 20 messages. Nick dialed Russell.

"_You_ are at the Bellagio," was the first words out of Russell's mouth.

"Well, yeah. There's a—"

"I gave that call to Greg. _Why_ are you there?"

"Greg and I traded."

"Without telling me?"

"It's okay, D.B. We just traded, but the calls are—"

"Why was your phone turned off?"

"I had my hands full, it kept ringing and distracting me from questioning a witness, so I had to turn it off. I just forgot. I'm sorry." Nick sat down on his legs. "Greg should have been to that scene by now, or called dispatch or you for directions."

"He hasn't done either and he was given the wrong address. The officer that called in the human remains said he realized he gave the wrong road number, but he can't recall if he gave 112 or 211, when it should have been 121. So for four hours I have been trying to find Greg!"

"Dispatch should have the address he gave. I'll give them a call and—"

"I already thought of that. The officer radioed it in so there is no recording, and the dispatcher who took it left for France when her shift ended three hours ago. We won't be able to reach her for another six hours, not that she can be any help from _France_!"

Nick stood up and grimaced. His legs tingled as blood flow returned to normal.

"And he isn't answering his phone?"

"No. Did you give him any of your other calls without telling me?"

"You only gave us each one."

"At this rate I wasn't sure you hadn't been handing others off to him." Nick had to bite his tongue from snapping a retort, and listened to Russell add, "Finish that crime scene and get back here. And _hurry_."

Nick looked at the screen to make sure Russell had hung up, before telling his boss, "Thanks for the faith there, buddy."

He turned to look out the balcony doors at Las Vegas, but the city offered no help to the situation. All it could tell him was daylight was on the eastern horizon and lighting the sky up with an array of pastel colors. So he went back to work on the stubborn carpet, pausing every so often to call Greg.

But all that got him was Greg's cheerful voicemail recording and a deeper sense of dread up.

#

Greg opened his eyes and for what felt like hours stared at the tree shading him from the hot, late afternoon Nevada sun. He didn't have to move to know he was sore everywhere, especially his head. He slowly sat up and carefully felt his head. He found a bloody patch on the back of his head but it didn't feel life threatening. Judging from the small spot on the rock behind him, he didn't feel he had much to worry about. He looked up the side of the gulch he'd fallen in. The side was about thirteen or fourteen feet. It went out of sight in both directions. Greg climbed to his feet and waited until a wave of dizziness passed.

He started to move when he felt pain and realized he still had thousands of cacti thorns stuck in him. He pulled as many as out as he could, and then walked up to the gulch wall. Preceding a long breath, Greg started up the side. He didn't know exactly how long it took him, but he reached the top winded, dirty, and dripping with sweat. Greg stood up at the top, staring at the house and outer buildings. They were much further away than he remembered running. Behind the buildings black smoke billowed up into the blue sky. With his breath caught, and his legs feeling a little less rubbery from the climb, Greg started walking.

He reached the first outer building – a lean-to – and stopped. Holes had punched through the walls of the building and blood had run under the boards to a dimple in the ground to create a chokeberry red pool. Greg hugged the wall and paused before looking around the end. Greg slowly stepped out into the yard. The couple on the porch was dead. Their daughter Theresa was dead. There were three dead teenagers in the yard that he could see. His Denali and the car were the source of the black smoke, both engulfed by flames. He briefly wondered which vehicle had started the fire. In the car that it's a body.

Greg looked back when he heard a snort. Two pigs were rummaging through the trough; the other eight were dead from various bullet wounds. Judging from the two pig's wounds, it wasn't going to be long before they joined the other dead pigs.

"I wasn't just in the wrong place at the wrong time," Greg muttered under his breath. "I somehow ended up in hell's half acre of the wrong place at the wrong time. Jesus!"

He walked around the burning cars, looking for any signs of life – and a vehicle. In the corral he'd passed coming in there was only one animal left alive – a Palomino. It had a bleeding wound down its leg, but it looked more like a scrape than anything deadly. The horse watched Greg with intense interest.

Greg walked into the barn and found two sheep alive, along with a plethora of tack and a tractor. There were no keys in the tractor, not that he'd know how to drive it if there had been. He walked to the garage near the house. He found a car in it with all the windows shot out and full of holes, but the keys were in the ignition. He pulled the door opened and sat down, trying to start it. The car wouldn't even turn over. He got out and opened the hood. The battery was in pieces and the acid had already begun to work through the metal around it.

Greg left the building and searched the other five buildings. He found most of the chickens were alive, one dog hiding under the porch, but no vehicle. He tried the back door and found it unlocked. He went in and searched for a phone, only to discover there was no phone. He couldn't even find cell phones.

"Who in the hell lives in the middle of nowhere without a phone?" Greg asked the empty house.

He walked back outside and sat on the back steps in the shade, within sight of the corral. He looked up when the horse whinnied. It pawed the ground and pranced in place.

"Do you have a phone?" Greg asked it.

It whinnied back.

"I bet you're hungry, huh?"

It pawed the ground.

Greg walked back to the barn and found a grain sack with a coffee can. He fed the sheep and took another can out to the corral. He spotted a trough that he dumped it in. The horse went to work on the grain. Greg went back to the stairs and sat down with a long sigh.

He looked across the valley with a forlorn sigh. He wasn't about to hike out into the desert. His last trek across the desert nearly killed him.

Greg looked back at the horse. Course… He did have a horse this time. But he didn't like worse is and had never ridden one. He wasn't even sure how to get the saddle or bridle on. Greg sighed again, looking across the desert. He got up and walked inside. If he was going to attempt riding to somewhere for help, he had to find sunscreen and a hat.

#

Morgan came out of the reception area into the halls of the lab. And stopped. Quickly she became aware that there was no one in sight, no one working in labs. Morgan didn't move when Catherine brushed past her.

"Get that trace to the lab, Morgan," Catherine said. They had state patrol give them a rundown of any strange items found along the road above the landfill and had Catherine's nearly undivided attention.

"I would… But I don't think anyone is in the trace lab."

Catherine stopped, looking back. She turned a full circle, realizing the same thing Morgan did. There was no one in the lab.

"This is like the beginning of the zombie apocalypse," Morgan commented.

Catherine shot her a disapproving glare. "I'm sure there's a reason it's empty. Come on."

The two walked to Russell's lab, but he wasn't there. They were passing the break room when they found Henry and two more lab techs. There were several maps laid out on the table and one was working on a laptop.

"Where is everyone?" Catherine asked.

The three looked up.

"You haven't heard?" Henry asked.

"I guess not. Heard what?"

"Greg's missing."

"He's at the Bellagio."

Morgan looked away, muttering, "No he's not."

Catherine turned to her. "He's not?"

Morgan shook her head, smiling wistfully. "They said this was normal."

"What was?"

Morgan looked down.

"What was, Morgan?"

"We put our call sheets in the middle of the table and—"

Through gritted teeth, Catherine demanded, "Who did you play Call Roulette with?"

She offered another wistful smile. "Greg, Nick and Sara, but this time…" Morgan shrugged. "We've played it before."

"But what about this time?

She shook her head. "Nothing. It's nothing."

The decibels of Catherine's voice rose when she asked, "What about this time, Morgan?"

"Well… I… Greg, he… He wasn't going to… Play."

"Then why did he?"

"We, may have, possibly, talked him into it."

"You mean pressured him into it."

Morgan offered a wistful smile. "He did play, though."

"Start working our case."

"I need help look for him."

"You _need_ to start working this case before I recommend D.B. do more than put you on probation for three months."

Morgan made a few feeble attempts to answer, but stopped finally and left to obey. Catherine turned back to Henry.

"Where is D.B.?"

"Ecklie's office."

Catherine left. With each new supervisor Nick always seemed to talk the others into playing Call Roulette. The game was innocent enough, but in her mind, playing roulette in any form was just begging for bad luck. Bad luck had finally happened, and they had to find Greg.

#

Nick hurried through the halls on the hunt for Henry. He had to talk to him before he could join the search for Greg. He breezed past Russell's office.

From behind him he heard Russell's voice loudly announce, "Nicholas Parker Stokes."

Nick stopped mid-step, almost tripping. He wasn't used to anyone beside his parents using his full name – and they hadn't done that since he was a teenager. The call had gotten the attention of a few lab techs who turned to stare at him.

Nick turned around. Russell stood with his hand on the door handle of his open office door.

"A word," Russell said.

Nick slowly walked in, watching Russell shut the door behind him.

"I'm taking evidence to Henry," Nick told him, "and then Sara and I are—"

"Sit down," Russell said as he sat down in his own chair.

Nick hesitated, until Russell turned a dark glare on him. He sank onto a chair. He didn't know what Russell was angry about, but from the expression on Russell's face, he was in for a long lecture.

"Tell me how Call Roulette works, Nick."

"The… What?" The way this had started, he really expected something else. Not questions about a game.

"Explain how the game you, Morgan, Sara, and Greg played works. The one that put the call with the wrong address in Greg's hands instead of yours."

Nick didn't want to answer that. The last sentence hinted that there was a very uncomfortable storm brewing behind Russell's calm questioning, and the outcome was not going to be in Nick's favor.

"It's just a game we play sometimes. It's nothing."

"And how to does this game work? What are the rules?"

"The players put their call sheets in the center of the table. Someone starts by calling heads or tails. A coin is flipped. If they get the call right, they get to pull out a call sheet. If they lose, the next person to their right calls. The players do this until all the calls have been claimed."

Russell stared at him for a long, silent, and very uncomfortable moment.

"Well, if that's all, I need to get this evidence to—"

"You told me that you and Greg traded calls."

"We did."

"You didn't trade calls, Nick. Someone overheard you four and said Greg didn't want to play, but that you three pressured him into it."

Nick hesitated again. Had the heater come on? It never worked right in this office. Nick looked out into the lab, wondering who told Russell about that.

"Was Greg pressured into playing or not?"

"D.B.," Nick focused on him again. He even risked a smile. "It's just a game. We've played it for years. Any one of us, even me, could have gotten that call."

"Yes. You're right. But I didn't ask what the chances someone else selected the call. I asked if Greg was pressured into playing the game."

Nick almost laughed. He found this whole thing ludicrous. "He's always played before and he went along this time."

"From how you're avoiding the question, I'm going to guess he didn't want to play last night."

"D.B., this is crazy. I mean, what if I had kept it and I was missing. Would you be questioning the others about the game?"

"Nick, you're the assistant supervisor. What you do matters twice as much as what everyone else does. Do you know what the lab saw with your behavior and this Call Roulette last night?" Russell leaned on his desk. "If you're assistant supervisor it's okay to pressure you co-workers into doing things they don't want to do and it's okay to undermine my authority as well."

Nick was growing hotter with embarrassment by the second. "How did the game undermine your authority?"

"I give my CSI cases that I feel each of your skill sets and background will provide the best chance of solving. But your blatant disregard to my authority showed the lab they don't have to really do as I tell them."

Nick stared at him. He stared back. He was waiting for Nick to ask the obvious and was going to let Nick sit and sweat until he did. So Nick got it over with.

"How did those calls match Greg's and my skill sets?"

"The description of the d.b. sounded like an O.D. Greg finished his forensic pathology and serology degrees last month. That, coupled with his chemistry and DNA background, means he can run his own narco panels, which frees Henry up to help on other cases. Further—"

Further? Why'd there have to be a further? Nick wanted to shrink and slip away from this conversation.

"Your call was a joint effort with the State Patrol, who regularly asks to work with you or Catherine. Since Catherine was supervising Morgan, I sent you. So, not only have you undermined my authority, you bullied a co-worker into playing a game you, as an assistant supervisor, shouldn't have been playing at all. Now that co-worker is missing, I have to reassign all our open cases to swing and day, doubling their work loads, and if the people along the chain of command aren't worried, they are not happy. But at least you gotthe case _you_ wanted, right?"

Nick didn't wonder how Russell knew he'd wanted Greg's case. The weight of his poor decisions was heavy and uncomfortable threatening to prevent him from breathing. It came with the iron fisted realization that he had made some very poor decisions in the last twenty-four hours – and Greg was the one paying for those decisions. So he kept silent, staring at Russell, and praying this would end soon so he could go look for Greg.

"I need you here helping to find Greg, so for now you're still on the clock. But as soon as he's found, your two week, unpaid, suspension begins. I also don't feel you were ready to be an assistant supervisor. When you return to work you will no longer be an assistant supervisor and your salary will be downgraded to CSI 3. Do you have any questions?"

Nick's eyes burned but he kept silent. He shook his head.

"Go take your evidence to Henry, and then go look for our friend."

Nick got up and left the office. When he was out of sight of Russell's office he stopped and took several long breaths to settle his nerves. Only his father had ever so skillfully made him feel small and so horrible about decisions he'd made, without raising his voice once. He had never expected Russell to be capable of doing the same.

Once Nick had a grip on his nerves, he headed for the tox lab.

He found Henry talking to someone on the phone. Nick waited, and realized Henry was writing down GPS coordinates.

"I'll start in that grid at daylight," Henry told the person and hung up. "Nick."

"Has anyone ever overdosed on LSD?"

Henry blinked. "Here?"

"Ever. Has anyone ever overdosed on it?"

"Not that I know of."

"Could someone overdose?"

Henry thought about it. "I suppose it's possible, but the amount would be a crazy amount. They'd have to cover their entire body with LSD blots, but they'd be already tripping before they got enough on them. They'd probably stop long before the levels would hospitalize them."

"There is a body and a suspect on my last case. Can you test them both for LSD?"

"Sure."

Nick handed him the plastic bag with the sticker sheets. "And this too."

"Okay. But I'm leaving in an hour, when the sun comes up."

"I heard. Do the test for the body and woman, before the LSD breaks down."

"I'm on it."

Nick turned and left. He turned a corner, running into Sara.

"I picked up three grids. Are you ready?" she asked Nick.

Nick nodded. The two headed to the parking garage.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

At day break Greg begun figuring out how to saddle and bridle the horse. He was surprised by how patient the horse was, and had lost count how of how many times he'd pulled everything off and started again. The sun was now sinking low in the sky and it was becoming painfully obvious he had no idea what he was doing. He'd grabbed the saddle closest to the door and it was decorated with a lot of silver and turquoise on light colored leather, and at first he thought that was the problem. But none of the others went on any better. He finally pulled the saddle off and dropped it on the ground, glaring at it. The horse snorted and shook, ridding itself of the blanket.

"You are not helping," Greg told it.

It snorted and nuzzled his arm.

"I wish you could tell me what I'm doing wrong," Greg told the horse.

Greg looked back at the house. Last night he had drug all the bodies into the barn and covered them, trying to keep most scavengers away from them. He'd spent a cold night asleep in the hay loft, listening to creatures come and go. That morning, he found scavengers had found the dead animal carcasses. The horse had a few more cuts from tackles with something in the night, so Greg decided before dark he was putting it in with the sheep in the barn.

Greg untied the lead rope he'd tied around the horse's neck because he didn't know how it went on, and led the willing horse into the stall with the sheep. He poured grain out for the three and then closed the door. He looked at the house. It was a crime scene, but he hadn't eaten in two days and he was starting to feel light headed from it. Greg crossed the yard to the back door, drawing the surviving dog out from under the porch. When he opened the back door, the dog bolted inside past him.

"Guess you're hungry too, huh?" Greg asked him.

He found three dog bowls on the back porch and then found the dog food in a closet. He filled the bowl and gave it to the dog. Then he went in search of food for himself. He opened the refrigerator. There was left over fried chicken and mashed potatoes. He sat them out and made a plate before he realized there was no microwave.

"Freakin' hicks," Greg grumbled.

He decided cold food was better than none. He found ice trays in the freezer and large ice tea glasses for ice water. Greg sat down at the kitchen table and started eating. The dog trotted over and laid down at Greg's feet, licking its paws and chops loudly.

"So tell me, Tex, other than being overbearing parents, were they good people?"

Tex looked up at him. Greg patted his head and was rewarded with a tail wag.

"Don't go getting attached. I can't have dogs and I prefer fish."

Tex wagged his tail again.

Greg finished eating, washed his dishes, and put them in the drying rack. He started walking through the house. There was a television but he could only get two channels clearly, and on both were shows he didn't care for. An old radio sat at the back of the living room. He turned it on and tuned it to a station he liked. He wandered into one bedroom, then the next.

It was the third that he found a treasure. The decorations told him this was the daughter's room, and sitting on her bookshelf were five books on horsemanship. Greg pulled them out and settled into a chair with a reading light next to it. He started studying a subject he'd gotten wrong all day.

#

Morgan parked behind the ambulance, and walked down the road. There were two officers, a paramedic, and two firefighters standing on the other side of the broken guard rail. The land dropped off after that. She stopped next to an officer, looking over the edge at the pickup truck sitting in the ravine below. Six firefighters were working to push and pull two backboards with bodies wrapped in blankets up the steep slope toward the group. She glanced at David when he stopped next to her.

"Why were we called back out here?" she asked.

"I was told there's a dead person. I don't know why you were called."

Morgan looked down the slope. "Still don't know why I'm here. I should be looking for Greg."

David patted her shoulder. "He'll turn up."

"He's been missing for three days," she growled. "I should be helping look for him, not stuck on this case."

"Greg is like a bad penny, miss," the officer beside her said. "He doesn't know how to stay lost for long and always turns up."

"Not. Helping."

The man just shrugged her bad mood off.

Finally the firefighters reached the edge and Morgan was pushed back as the group of mostly men pulled the backboards up and onto the road. Morgan looked away, watching the officer signal traffic to take a detour.

"Uh… Morgan?" David said.

She looked back and for a moment it didn't register that she was staring at a headless body.

"Oh my God!" She trotted over, kneeling on a knee next to David. "Is there ID?"

A firefighter held out a wallet. "This was on the dash."

Morgan snatched it away and flipped it open. The head on the driver's license was the head in the morgue.

"This is him. This is my d.b.!"

"He's still dead. Maybe you shouldn't get so excited," David suggested.

"I'm not excited. Well, I am. I didn't expect to find the rest of him." She turned on her heels to face the other backboard. The paramedics were working on the guy on it. "What about him?"

"He's alive," one paramedic told her, "and smells like a bar."

Morgan walked over to them. The man opened his eyes, but he couldn't really focus on anyone. He finally focused on Morgan and a slow, drunken grin spread across his face.

"I'm in heaven."

"No, sir, you're lying on a road in Nevada and were found next to a headless corpse."

"No shit?"

Morgan smiled. "No shit."

The man passed out. One of the paramedics looked up at her and grinned.

"If he were sober, that would have been cruel."

"He won't remember it. If he checks out, take him to detox. No point in trying to talk to him right now."

The paramedics nodded.

#

Joining Russell in the layout room was a State Patrol sergeant, the search and rescue director, Ecklie, and the Las Vegas Sherriff. Another day had ended without any sign of Greg and they were nearing the golden hour that generally marked if a missing person was found dead or alive. Only Russell's wife knew how scared he was that they may have lost Greg.

"We've covered most of the area around Angel Mountain," the SAR director told them. "And about forty miles from here in all directions. We haven't even seen his vehicle yet."

"Should we call in helicopters?" Ecklie asked.

"To search where?" the Sherriff asked. She heaved a sigh and rubbed her temple for a moment. The woman looked exhausted, but Russell had a new respect for her. Since she found out Greg was missing, she had been at the lab. He had even seen her comforting a few crying co-workers, lending them a much needed shoulder. "Without knowing where exactly he was sent, we'd spend thousands of dollars for a few miles when that same thousands can pay for a dozen miles per person on the ground."

Russell kept silent. He wanted to search faster for Greg, but he couldn't there were politics involved that even he couldn't supersede. Russell looked up and saw Nick hovering at the door. He moved around people, catching Nick's eye when he looked up. The two stepped into the hall.

"Anything?" Nick asked.

Russell shook his head. Nick's eyes watered a little but he nodded.

"Probably shouldn't have gone home. I'm sorry. I—"

"You can't find him if you fall asleep at the wheel and end up in a ditch, Nick. I saw Sara; she said you two had another grid to search before dark?"

He nodded. "If that's okay?"

"Yes. Of course it is. Stay in touch with the search and rescue team."

Nick nodded. He didn't move though.

"What else?"

"Please let me finish my last case before you suspend me."

"You have until we find Greg."

"I might need more time."

Russell shook his head. "You have until we find Greg. This conversation is done." Russell went back in the room.

Nick stood still, resisting rushing in and laying into Russell. But he guessed from that conversation's abrupt end, he was close to Russell's last nerve and pressing might risk more than a suspension and demotion.

"Nick," someone called.

He turned. Henry was hanging out the door.

"I have tox results from the woman and man in the morgue."

Nick walked down to the tox lab. The first thing he noticed was how ragged Henry looked. He was wearing the same clothes from yesterday, his hair was sticking up, and he had dark circles under his eyes.

"Have you slept?" Nick asked.

"No. Not yet." Henry sat down on a stool, the next indication he was tired. Nick rarely saw the man stop moving, even when he was sitting. But tonight, his hands were limp in his lap, and his eyes drooped.

Suddenly Nick felt worse because Russell was right. He had been arrogant, and, he realized, greedy. He wanted an easy call, and now Greg and the entire lab was suffering from his selfishness.

Henry went on to tell him, "The woman had LSD in her system. About 30 micrograms, so maybe one hit. When I was drawing her blood she said she'd taken LSD ten hours ago, so the dose might have been higher. But the man is an entirely different world of dumb. His tox came back with well over 10,000 milligrams of LSD. That's almost a hundred million hits!"

"And the stickers? Did they have that much on them?"

"No. Not even close. Each blot had between 30 to 40 micrograms. At best, maybe one milligram per sheet."

Nick thought about the evidence. And his mind was more than happy to work on something other than a missing friend and the impending suspension and demotion.

"The guy, when we found him, had foam around his mouth, and his shirt was still wet with sweat. I ran a UV over the carpet under him and it luminates a blue-white. Does LSD illuminate under UV?"

"Nick," Sara said as she stopped in the door. "We gotta go."

"Okay. I'll be right there."

She walked away.

"Yes. It will," Nick answered him.

"Okay." Nick stood up. "Henry, test that piece of carpet, and the man's clothes. I need to know the concentration of LSD on everything."

"I'll try to get it done tonight for you."

"Thanks," Nick told him, fully suspicious.

"We all know about the suspension, Nick. It's not that big of a lab."

Nick nodded. "Thank you." He headed for the door.

Henry nodded. "I hope you find Greg before dark, too."

"So do I."

#

Russell walked by the break room. He stopped and went back. Catherine was sitting on the couch, staring at the wall. She held a cup of coffee in her hand, but it appeared forgotten. He walked in and sat down across from her. She looked at him.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

She wearily smiled. "It's always something around here, isn't it?"

"Yes. Not too many dull moments."

She sipped her coffee and made a face.

"Bad?" he asked.

"Cold. I guess I zoned out longer than it felt like." She put the cup on the side table. "No word on Greg from your end, is there?"

"Nothing yet."

"We're coming up on the forty-eight hour mark." She closed her eyes and inhaled.

Russell waited for her to open her eyes again. "I thought I gave you a call with Morgan."

"You did. And then… The night just slipped away. But she's been on it since I left her with it. Maybe it's wrong, maybe I should have asked, but I want her to handle the case. I think she can."

"Then I will let her handle it."

The two fell silent. Russell leaned forward. She turned her attention to him.

"Do you think something terrible has happened to him?" he asked. "I was warned Greg can throw some pretty outrageous temper tantrums, and it sounds like this Call Roulette would have been something that would set him off. How do we know this isn't one of his infamous tantrums?"

"Yes, he can have some very unprofessional tantrums, but this isn't one of them, D.B." She stood up and stretched, then turned to watch people in the lab. "He usually gets over it after a few hours at a crime scene by himself and starts taking calls again. This time something is keeping him from getting in touch with us. Or someone."

"We haven't had a ransom yet."

She shook her head. "After this long, I doubt we'd get one."

Russell nodded. He hesitated to swallow the harsh reality of that statement and then pressed on. "Why did you tell me about this Call Roulette?"

"Roulette, in any form, is dangerous. I have been trying to get them to stop playing it since I was an assistant supervisor because I knew that one day it was going to lead to disaster. When I was supervisor—" She flashed him a smile, "I told them if I caught them playing it, they would have to find work somewhere else. As far as I know, they never played it after that. But I guess, a new supervisor, made them think it was okay again."

"So you put the fear of you into them to stop it?"

She laughed. "Yes. I guess I did."

"I was stunned to find Nick was behind this. I never saw that coming."

She shrugged. "He's been drifting since he came back from Hawaii. I think he felt blindsided by all the changes he walked into."

"Wasn't he?"

She nodded. "That was my fault. I was mad at him, at Ray, at… a lot of people."

"And now?"

She smiled at him. "I'm still mad, and there's still room to spread all that blame, but I'm getting over it. I will get over it. My life doesn't leave a lot of room to hold grudges."

"That's good to know. Tomorrow morning, I've picked up six grids. Do you want to take one or two?"

"Yes. I do."

"Good. Well, I have to go scare more of my employees into working instead of worrying. Worrying isn't bringing our boy home." He stood and turned.

"D.B."

He looked back at her.

"Which is the truth – Nick is suspended or fired?"

"Suspended and demoted. Don't worry. He's not on his last leg. Yet."

She smiled. "I'll talk to him if you want me to."

"He might need that. Just don't press the issue."

She nodded.

Russell left the break room and headed for trace. Time to get Hodges back on track.

#

Morgan entered the interview room. The passenger of the wrecked truck had his head buried in his arms on the table. Morgan sat down across from him and he looked up. That same smile he'd shown before appeared.

"I've seen you someplace. Where'd I see you before?"

"When you were passed out drunk lying on the road?" she offered.

His eyebrows dipped into a deep V. He shook his head, shaking his grimy hair. "What are you talking about?"

She opened her folder and told him, "Your invalid driver's license says your James McKeon." She looked up. "You, James, seem to enjoy getting drunk and drive home."

He laughed. Scratched his unshaven chin. "Yeah. I do that. Don't remember most of the times, though."

"Yes. Alcoholics tend to have that problem."

He glared at her. "I like my drinks, but I don't have a problem."

"Did your friend?" She showed him an enlarged photocopy of the driver's license. "Peter Bennett?"

He laughed. "Naw. Pete didn't drink very often. But he did go out with me last night because… Well, his wife died yesterday. The cancer finally won." That sucked away James' smile. "Lucinda was a good woman. After I lost my license, she'd come pick me up when the bartenders called Pete. Never said a word, just drove me home, made sure I got in, and left. Good woman, Lucinda. She didn't deserve to die that way."

The story touched Morgan and she almost forgot about the fact she had to find out why Pete's head was no longer attached to his body.

"James, I'm sorry to tell you this but Peter is dead."

James stared at her for a long time, almost as if he didn't see her. Slowly, almost in a whisper, he asked, "Peter's dead?"

"Yes. He was decapitated, and you were the last person with him. What happened to him, James?"

James started crying. "Pete… He's dead? He lost his head?"

Morgan didn't answer. A few sobs passed before James spoke again.

"I was really drunk. He was too. But he insisted on driving home, even though I said we should get a cab." James rubbed his hand over his face, smearing tears. "I remember he said he was going to puke and then he leaned out the window."

"While he was driving?"

James nodded. "I think so. I was so drunk. And I sat back and then… I was riding a roller coaster. The next thing I remember was waking up in detox."

"You don't remember anything else?"

James shook his head with a grimace. "Lady, if I knew more, I'd be spilling my guts to you. Peter was my only and best friend. I don't have anyone else now. No one's going to give a damn about a drunk."

Morgan couldn't agree, or disagree, but she guessed he was probably right.

"Okay. I'm holding you for forty-eight hours – mostly because you don't look like you're in any shape to go home. Get some sleep and I'll come see you if I have more questions."

"I bet most people don't tell you it's kind of you to hold them for a good reason like that. Thanks, miss."

Morgan offered a smile and left the room. She still had to figure out where the head and body separated ways.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Greg led the horse through the gate to get around the cattle guard that protected the house and buildings from the cows. He turned to the horse, smiling. He was proud he'd managed to saddle and bridle the horse correctly – according to the book. And the bridle looked right. He'd found a canteen in a box in the closet and filled it with ice and water. He'd shortened it as much as he could and swung it over the saddle horn. He'd wrapped up some chicken in a plastic bag and tied it onto the back.

Greg gathered the reins at the saddle horn and put his foot into the stirrup. The horse started prancing, dancing away from him.

"Whoa. Whoa. Easy." Greg stepped down.

Truth be told, he was really nervous about this. This quarter ton animal had it in its power to kill him, so he wasn't exactly comfortable with this decision.

Greg tried again, with the same result.

"Look, horse, I have to ride you. You can cover a lot more ground than I can, so just… Chill. Chill."

He tried again and the dancing started again. Greg took a deep breath and swung himself into the saddle. The horse did a little bucking dance before shooting off like a bullet across the desert.

Greg wanted to scream, but he forgot how. The books had contradictions about what to do in a moment like this, but one thing they all agreed on, he had to get the horse under control or he could end up with a broken neck or worse. Greg bounced around until he got the reins gathered up and using both hands, yanked back as hard as he could.

The horse nearly flipped over as it turned and stopped at the same time. Greg grabbed the saddle horn. The inertia of the stop threw him hard against the saddle horn, ramming it into his stomach and against his diaphragm. He didn't have time to worry about air he couldn't get. The horse started bucking and running.

Greg closed his eyes and held on. This was worse than the books even came close to describing. The horse bolted at a dead run again. Greg clenched the reins in one hand, the saddle horn in the other, and held on for dear life!

#

Nick and Sara met a state patrolman on the highway. Nick flagged him down with his Denali's lights and the two slowed to a stop across from one another. They weren't too worried about stopping in the middle of the road, since this highway was lucky to see a rush hour of two cars every hour.

"We haven't heard anything but the radio signal is bad out here," Nick told him.

"No one has seen him," the state patrolman said.

Nick looked down the road. "Where are you coming from?"

The officer picked up a map and pointed at a road. "I covered 121 between County Road 45 up to the highway. No sign of him, but there's a lot of houses in that stretch I can't get to in my car. You might try with your truck."

Nick heard paper rustling. Sara was already plotting their search.

"Okay. Thanks."

"You'll be seeing two others out here. I have to go back north to a call. Good luck finding him, guys."

The two drove away from each other.

Nick's phone began ringing and he fumbled for it before it stopped ringing. "Hello?" he anxiously said. "Greg?"

"No. Henry. You haven't found him either, I take it."

"No. What's up Henry?"

"I got the test finished before I headed out. The carpet was positive for LSD, but I think I found what killed the guy. His pants and shirt had been soaked in LSD."

"So when he started sweating, even a little, he was getting a dose of LSD."

"And he was wearing those clothes when you found him. He overdosed on LSD – hard to do, but with this much in his system, it's what killed him."

"Thanks, Henry."

"Yeah."

Nick hung up. He

"Let's check some of the places he couldn't get to," Sara suggested. "It looks like there should be twelve houses in that twenty-two mile stretch."

"Fine," Nick answered.

Sara looked at him. "Are you beating yourself up about this again?"

"He really didn't want to flip, Sara. I shouldn't have made him."

"I'm sure he's fine. He probably just got a flat or something."

"It has been four days, Sara. Nothing good comes out of people missing out here for four days."

"Be optimistic, Nick."

"The last time he disappeared in the desert Sara, he barely made it back alive. My optimism is M.I.A. right now."

"But he did, and that's what we have to focus on. Greg is smart and he gets out of trouble as easy as he gets in it. We'll find him, okay? We will find him."

Nick didn't respond.

"I heard you're suspended. Is it that true?"

"Yeah. And demoted. I screwed up pretty bad this time."

She shook her head. "Not really. You're not fired. That's proof right there that you didn't mess up too terribly bad."

Nick chuckled. "You should package that optimism and sell it."

"When I figure out how, you'll get a free sample."

That made Nick smile.

#

Morgan walked along the road, looking for anything that looked like it would whack someone's head clean off at the neck. So far, nothing was obvious. And she only had another hour before the State Patrol had to open the road again. Morgan walked to the edge of the road and stared down the hill at the landfill. She wondered if the land would ever recover from the ugly scars man made across it. She looked to her left, into the light hot breeze coming up the road. Her eyes were drawn to a mailbox next to a road. It led down the hill to a house nestled neatly between the bottom of the embankment and the landfill fence. She turned, seeing two more mailboxes for houses like it down the road. Morgan walked back to the mailbox and pulled out a UV light. She went over it with her light, but nothing showed up. She reached out to open the lid and the mailbox tipped over.

"That wouldn't kill anyone," she told the mailbox.

She sat it up and went to the next. It took a little more force, but she easily pushed it over. She walked to the third and before she got there, she could see she was on to something. On the road in front of it was a dark patch that looked suspiciously like blood. She walked around it and found the other side of the mailbox was covered in a black substance. She pulled on a glove and tried to tip the mailbox. It didn't budge. The post it was on must have been set a foot or two down. She pulled a luminal swap from a vest pocket and ran it along the substance. The swab turned pink.

Morgan turned, looking up the road. The events of the fateful night that Peter Bennett died became clear. He was driving his drunken friend home, and was probably even drunker. He didn't stop to vomit. Instead he hung his head out the window to vomit, veering the car to the side of the road. His head smashed against the mailbox, decapitating him. Meanwhile the pickup with the passed out friend and headless body, rolled down the road and off the edge into the ravine.

"Wow. That's a new reason not to drink and drive," Morgan said to herself.

#

The horse's race against nothing didn't come to an abrupt halt. It ground to a halt. At first Greg didn't notice. He was too busy leaning over the saddle horn and holding on for his life. He opened his eyes slowly, staring at the ground that had stopped moving under him. His breath came out as shaky and his body quivered. Very slowly and cautiously Greg sat up, but kept his hand tightly clamped around the saddle horn.

Then he noticed the horse was shaking and stood with its legs spread eagle. Greg hurried to get off; afraid it was going to fall over on him. He dropped one rein and moved back to the end of the other rein, staring at the horse. The horse was frothy with sweat and it snorted as it drew in gasps of air. It turned its head to look at Greg but did nothing else.

"Are you going to die?" Greg asked it.

The horse let out a heavy breath and very slowly got its legs under it. The gasping breaths began to subside until it was breathing normal. Greg took a step just as it shook. He stepped back, watching it shake and shake and shake. It stopped and put a leg out, then rubbed the side of its face against its leg. Then it was time for the other side. Another shake came and finally it stood still again.

"Call me strange, horse, but… I don't think horses are supposed to run like that for so long. In the desert… And… Such."

The horse just looked at him.

Greg cautiously approached it and took the canteen off the saddle horn. The chicken had been lost somewhere in the run through the desert. Greg took several deep swallows and then put it back on the saddle horn. He really didn't want to get back on and be taken for another run, but the books said it was best to get back on and show dominance or the horse would never obey. He sure as hell hoped those writers had actually ridden a horse and knew what they were talking about.

Greg tossed the opposite rein up over the horse's neck, joined it with the one in his hand, and put his foot in the stirrup. He waited for the dance like before, but it didn't come this time. He swung himself into the saddle and grabbed the saddle horn, expecting another sprint. The horse didn't even move. Greg put his foot in the other stirrup and gathered the reins, then immediately put his hand back on the saddle horn. He looked around him, trying to get his bearings. He knew the fence for the place was somewhere to the west. The best bet was to ride to it and then head back south where the cattle guard and gate was.

"Okay, horse, let's try this without racing your damned shadow. It's less work for you."

Greg pulled the reins to turn the horse but the animal didn't budge. He pulled a little harder. Nothing. Greg gave it a slight yank. Nothing. Then he remembered a slight nudge or kick of his heels in the horse's side with the pull, and the horse obeyed. Greg remembered how to encourage the horse to walk faster, but he was in no mood to go faster. He'd gone fast enough on his the first day he'd ever ridden one of these beasts.

#

Nick slowed to a stop, staring at the mailbox by the road. Sara watched it.

"What is it?"

Nick stared hard at the mailbox. "What was the other address? The right one?"

"14643 County Road 112. Oh. Hey. That's the same house number. What road are we on?"

Nick shook his head as he sighed. "Country Road 211. What do you wanna bet Greg's somewhere down this road?"

"For four days?"

Nick gave her a level look. She shook her head.

"Maybe."

Nick turned the vehicle onto the rutted road, crossed the cattle guard and started across the desert. He swerved around the occasional cow lying in, standing on, or strolling down the road. They came down into a valley and spotted buildings.

Before they even reached the second cattle guard, Nick sensed something was wrong. He could see horses lying in the corral and as bloated as they were they weren't alive. He slowed as he came around the barn and found two burnt out vehicles in the yard – one that looked a lot like Greg's Denali. Nick parked, turned off the engine, and the two got out. For a moment there was silence.

A dog came out from under the porch barking at them.

"Hey there. Hey there buddy. Hey there," Nick called out.

The dog stopped barking and started wagging his tail. Nick crouched to pet him.

"Good boy. Good old boy. Have you seen Greg?"

"Nick… Take a look at this place, the wall on the house and… are those dead pigs?"

Nick looked where she pointed. He walked over but stopped when he was able to catch a whiff of death. He backed up.

"Yeah." He looked up at the holes in the walls of the pig's shed. "Someone was shooting a lot."

"There are a couple of 9 millimeters guns over here and a .45. I think this is blood."

Nick circled around the vehicles to the driver's side of the larger vehicle. He leaned in to see if he could see the VIN, but it was covered in soot. A charred gun sat on the seat springs.

"Got another gun inside here, on the passenger side."

Nick opened the back door and stared at a very black box that looked very much like a field kit.

"Sara. I found something. Grab some gloves."

He didn't look at Sara when she stopped beside him. She pulled on a pair of gloves and opened the kit. The aluminum box had protected enough of the contents to reveal it was a field kit.

"Maybe it wasn't Greg's."

"You know it was. Stop trying to paint a rosy picture out of this."

"Then where are the bodies?"

"I'll take the house if you want the outer buildings."

"Sure." She walked away.

He walked on to the front porch. The windows and side of the house showed more signs of a gun fight. He spotted a rifle at the end of the porch. Near the door were two revolvers and a box of bullets. Near each of the weapons was a pool of dried blood. Nick pulled on gloves and then walked inside. The front where bullets had come through the walls was damaged, but the back had not been damage. He walked through the bedrooms. A collection of horse care and riding books were lying on the bed in one. He walked into the kitchen, noticing dishes in the drying rack.

He was about to walk out the back door when he froze. He'd seen something in his peripheral vision that was out of the ordinary.

He turned back around, staring at a folded paper on the refrigerator. TO: LVPD CSI was scrawled across the front in a very familiar handwriting. Nick pulled the note off and unfolded it. As he read it a wash of relief made him smile.

"Nick."

He turned, smiling at Sara. She hesitated.

"What?" she asked.

"He's okay. He said he was sent to the wrong address, the couple here mistook him for their daughter's gangster boyfriend, and then the daughter and her boyfriend and his friends showed up. There was a shootout and he ran. He fell in a gulch and thinks he was knocked out. When he got back, the vehicles were on fire. He waited a day, couldn't find a working vehicle, so the next day he took the last horse and is riding it back to Las Vegas. And he said he had to eat something, drank some water, and slept in the hay loft, but he was careful to leave the rest of the crime scene untouched. He also moved the bodies to the barn so scavengers couldn't easily get to them."

"That explains the bodies with tarps over them. Should… Wait. Greg rode a horse? Greg hates horses. I don't even think he knows how to ride."

"That's what he wrote."

"So he's somewhere in the desert on a horse with no name?"

The two hesitated, realizing the joke at the same time. Knowing that Greg was okay, they were both able to laugh about it.

"Let me go radio this in," Sara said, "And then you can take the Denali and keep looking for him."

"We checked all the houses from the highway to here. No one's seen him."

"That was before we knew he was on a horse – with no name."

"That's just not as funny a second time."

"Sorry. Look, if he's on a horse, he'd have to get out of that fence we came through. So stop again and ask if they've seen a guy riding a horse."

Nick nodded. Sara went back outside, but Nick stayed behind, re-reading the note. He smiled. He knew Greg was ingenious, but there were times he still managed to surprise Nick.

"Horse with no name," Nick chuckled as he walked out of the house.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The ride up to the highway had been a long, arduous one. Greg and the horse reached the fence and he found a gate before getting to the cattle guard. When Greg got on again, the horse decided it had some of its spunk back and tried taking off again. Greg wasn't having it a second time and hauled back on the reins so hard it hurt his shoulder. But it seemed to express Greg's intent to keep the ride at a walk. There were several roads between the gate and the highway, but all of them had cattle guards. He didn't feel like getting off and fighting with the horse to get back on, so he kept riding.

He'd intended on reaching the highway and flagging a car down. That came with two new sets of obstacles: a lack of cars and the horse's wild reaction to the few that did pass. Every time a car approached and Greg started to reach out to flag down the driver, the horse had a meltdown. The road had wide shoulders that gave him plenty of room to fight with the horse and not get in the road – but the shoulder was hard packed dirt, some sand, rocks, and cacti. So every time it had a meltdown – rearing, prancing, and trying to bolt – Greg had no choice but to focus on the fight or be thrown. So he came up with a new plan; he was going to the first house he could get to without getting off, no matter how far he had to ride to find one.

"I really hate you," Greg muttered when the horse started prancing and tossing its head.

The horse snorted, as if replying, 'Feeling's the same, jerk.'

He heard a vehicle approaching and got a grip with his legs and hand on the saddle horn, preparing for the battle. The horse reared as the car passed and lunged forward. Greg pulled back, getting the horse under control a little quicker than the last time. He tried to see the plus side to this; the horse appeared to be adjusting to traffic and it was stopping its fits quicker.

Greg looked up when the vehicle that had passed came to a screeching halt. That set the horse off again. By the time Greg got the animal back under control, the vehicle had backed up to them. He looked up, staring at Nick through the open passenger window.

Nick smiled back. "Hi, Greg."

"I hate you," Greg snarled.

"What?"

"Don't play dumb. You know this whole disaster is your fault! I hate you! And knowing you, you won't even get a slap on the wrist for it. But I will. I'm sure I'll get my chops busted for contaminating the crime scene even though I was stuck in the middle of the desert for _two days_! Or putting my weapon down, despite the fact I had a gun to my head. Or—"

The horse tried to buck but Greg gave the reins a hard enough tug it couldn't. He turned its head and planted his heels in its side. The horse started walking and Nick inched along beside them. The horse snorted and nervously gnawed on the bit. Greg wondered it if it thought the black beast next to it might leap from the road and attack them.

"I'm sorry, Greg. I am. But if you'd just answered your phone or turned up your radio—"

"Are you fucking stupid? Oh wait. You're the great Nick Stokes. You're _never_ stupid!"

Nick took a couple deep breaths and then in an unnaturally calm voice asked, "Why am I stupid, Greg?"

"Maybe you haven't notice, but _we have no cell service out here_! And you know damned well that when we get twenty miles out of city limits, the radios are a crap shoot. We've been complaining about that for years! _YEARS_! So don't go blaming me for any of this! You wanted my call, so you took it because you're the damned assistant supervisor and you can do that. And what do I get out of this? I fall in cactus, get shot at, get knocked out, and my Denali burns up with my phone and my radio and kit in it! All of which I'm sure I'll have to replace. Course if I were you, that wouldn't happen, would it? No. And to top it off, I hate horses, and this ride has not changed that opinion, but I had to go for help somehow, so here I am, riding a horse, hating every minute of it. All because you just had to make me flip for a call, didn't you? That was just great fun, wasn't it? Did you enjoy your case at the Bellagio, Nick? Was it as easy as you wanted it to be?"

"Greg… I… I'm suspended for two weeks without pay and demoted because of the Case Roulette and making you do it. I did not get off scot-free for what I did to you, and I am sorry I let it happen in the first place. All I can say is I'm sorry, Greg. And I'll help pay to replace the kit or anything else they ask you to pay for. Okay?"

"You're suspended and demoted?"

"Yes."

"GOOD! You deserved it, asshole!"

"Aw come on, Greg! You're not hurt that bad and you weren't shot. And you look good on that fine looking animal. You even chose the right saddle and bridle a beautiful palomino like her should be wearing. Can't we let bygones be bygones?"

"Go to hell!"

"Does it count that I'm proud of you?"

Greg stopped the horse and looked at Nick with open suspicion. "Why are you proud?"

"For one, the crime scene back at that farmhouse. You did a good job single-handling securing it, protecting the corpses, and the evidence. And that filly is probably a year, maybe two, and has probably never had a person on her back. But you're up there, riding her like a pro. You green broke your first horse, Greg-o!"

"It let me saddle and bridle it. It's just spooky." Greg spurred the horse back into a walk.

"I know a spooky horse from an inexperienced horse. That filly has never had a person on her back before you, but you're doing a great job with her."

"I don't care. Go away! I'm going to find a phone and call in the crime scene."

"Sara already radioed it in and I came looking for you. You've done your job and you did it amazingly well."

"Fine. Then I'm going home."

"You're going to ride all the way to your condo? And when you get there, where are you putting the horse? In your living room?"

Greg stopped the horse and glared at Nick.

"Do you really think _now_ is the best time to make fun of me, _Nicholas_?"

Nick started to answer. Greg cut him off.

"I'm not taking him back to that place, Nick. Not with all those dead horses."

"Her, and I didn't say that. I'll call animal control and—"

"They don't take horses."

"They take everything."

"He's not going to the pound. He's a good horse."

"It is a she and I thought you hated the horse."

"I hate you."

Nick laughed. "Fair enough. I'll call a guy I know on the mounted police and see if we can put her up at the barn until we clear her from the crime scene. And then you can find your pony a nice home."

"He's not a pony! He's almost fifteen hands."

"I didn't mean pony, literally. Look, are we going to go five miles an hour all the way back to Las Vegas arguing about stupid shit or are you going to let me help you? And for the record, I am sorry Greg. I didn't make you flip to be mean and honestly, I am sorry for everything that's happened to you because of it."

"You are not sorry!"

"I am too! And I had no intention of the last four days being this rough on you. Come on. Let me help you."

"Four days? It's only been three."

"Uh-uh, Greg-o. You've been missing for four days."

"Really?" Greg turned the horse back to the Denali. "I must have been out longer than I thought."

"You're always out."

"Screw you!" Greg spurred the horse harder than he planned. She tried to break into a run but he settled her back into a walk.

Nick hurried to keep up. "I'm sorry. Greg, I'm sorry! I shouldn't have said that."

Greg didn't stop the horse.

"Come on, Greg. Quit acting like this."

Greg didn't stop the horse.

"Greg, do you remember when you asked me to tell you when started acting like a diva? Remember that?"

"Yes."

"Greg, you're acting like a diva."

Greg slowed the horse to a stop. He looked at Nick.

"I want three days off."

"What?"

"Three days or I'm just going to keep riding and tell lies about you."

"I am not a supervisor anymore, Greg. I can't do that."

"You can make things happen. Make this happen."

Nick smiled. "Okay. I'll see what strings I can pull for you. Are we good?"

"Yeah. I guess."

"So am I calling the mounted police?"

Greg reached down and patted the horse's neck. "Okay."

The horse started prancing.

"Car's coming. Better get off the road."

Nick looked in the mirrors. "I don't see anything."

"She hears it."

Nick laughed and drove to a road to pull off onto. Greg let the horse trot to catch up. Nick got out with his phone pressed to his ear. He joined them, petting the horse's neck.

"Hey Chris. I've got a favor to ask you or one of your guys there. Seems we have a homeless horse from a crime scene and one of my CSI is attached to the little girl. I was wondering if you'd be willing to put her up until we can clear her."

The car came over the hill and she started prancing and fighting to run. Greg held her back until it passed and she calmed down again. He looked down at Nick. He was smiling up at him.

"Good job, Greg," Nick told him. To the phone he said, "You can? How soon can you leave? Let me tell you where we're at."

Nick disappeared around the Denali. Greg slid out of the saddle and stood next to the horse. He stroked her face, watching her.

"I have a name for your, if we can't find your original one," Greg told her. "Hell's Belle. I think it fits you."

The horse was indifferent.

#

With a long, heavy sigh, Morgan sat down on the locker bench, and then laid down on it and stared at the locker.

"It's been a long couple of nights, hasn't it?"

She looked up at her father. Ecklie walked to the spot at the end of her toes and sat down. He leaned on his legs, shaking his head a little.

"I tell you. Greg makes getting lost an art." Ecklie smiled at her. It faded when she didn't return it. He looked away again. "And now he owns a horse. And he doesn't even _like_ horses."

"Did you search for him?"

He nodded.

"I couldn't. D.B. and Catherine made me stay on my case." She looked at the locker again.

"Did you solve it? Your case?"

She nodded.

"Anything good about it?"

She shook her head. "Did you tell them not to let me search for Greg?"

"No. Why would I do that?"

"Because you've told D.B. not to let me do other things since I started and it's getting really annoying, dad. I'm a big girl, and I can't learn the job if you're always interfering."

"I'm sorry. I'll try not to interfere – as often. I just want to protect my daughter."

She seemed to ignore the remark when she told him, "I wanted to search for Greg. He searched for me when I was hostage in that helicopter."

"If you can call it that."

She looked at her dad. "What does that mean?"

"I thought he was going to start ripping off heads the way he got when you were up there."

She smiled as she looked away. Other people had told her that – she knew what that meant, but she had her eye on someone else.

"What? Why are you smiling?"

"Nothing, dad."

"If you'd like, we could go have breakfast."

She didn't answer. He stood and walked away.

"Will you buy me a happy face pancake? And make sure they poach the eggs right?"

Ecklie turned, smiling. She looked at him.

"Yes."

She stood up and followed Ecklie out.


End file.
